“What did he say?” Sister found her voice. She’d pulled her feet up under her, and her posture reminded me unpleasantly of a fetal position.
I tried to choose my next words carefully: “We didn’t talk for long. I was more interested in telling him off. I’d been waiting six long years to do that.”
Sister and Mark were silent, then Mark said, “You said he was hurt?”
“He got injured bull-riding. He doesn’t look good; he can’t walk, but I don’t know if his condition’s permanent. I assume he’s come home to recuperate.” I paused. Now for the worst part. “He has a woman and a boy with him. She’s got family here, but the boy mentioned they’d teen living in Beaumont. She looks like the type of woman who might work at the rodeo-sort of sturdy and weathered. Her name is Nola Kinnard. Her boy’s name is Scott. He’s about Mark’s age.”
Sister was unconcerned with Trey’s accessories. I saw the effort she made to keep her voice calm. “Well, what did you say to him? What did he say to you?”
“I spoke my mind. I told him to stay away from you and Mark-”
“Why? Why would you say that?” Mark demanded. The anger in his voice, in his stance, reminded me of Seott Kinnard defending Trey in the library. His hands curled into fists. “If I wanna see him, I will! That’s not your choice!”
“Mark! Go upstairs!” Sister said in a flat tone.
“No! Where’s he staying? How bad is he hurt? I want to know, Mom, I should know.” His voice softened. “Maybe he’s come home so he can see us. I want to see him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetie pie. You should really let Mom handle this, okay? You go upstairs. I need to talk with Uncle Jordy alone.”
“This isn’t fair!” Mark shouted, He sought an alternative to dismissal. “Can I go over to Terry’s house?”
“No, you cannot. You are too upset. Please, Mark, just go upstairs and we’ll talk in a minute.” Sister’s voice did not brook further discussion. Mark made a frustrated grunt and ran up the stairs, stomping against them as hard as he could, and slamming his door for extra effect.
“Goddamn Trey,” Sister said softly. She covered her face and began to cry. “Why did he have to come back? Why couldn’t he just have stayed away, like a dead man does?” Her sobbing broke entirely free then, and she leaned hard against my shoulder, and I cradled her while she wept, my hand nestled in the thick blonde hair above her neck.
I don’t know how long she cried; finally she pulled herself up, said nothing more to me, and went upstairs to talk to her son.
I called Candace and told her Sister wasn’t going to return to help with dinner. There wasn’t much of an evening rush (probably because of the cafe’s failure to offer a global menu) and when I told Candace the latest family trauma, she forgot about the intricacies of restaurant management and fretted about Sister and Mark’s well-being. I assured her Sister would be okay. Sister has her faults, but she is a titanium magnolia, made of sterner stuff than most folks. Mark was a tough, smart kid-surely he’d be okay. But I still ached for them both.
“What about you, sugar? Are you all right?” Candace asked.
“I have never wanted to hurt someone the way I wanted to hurt Trey. I wanted to beat the son of a bitch to a pulp. I didn’t know I had that in me.”
I could see Candace raise an eyebrow. “Pummeling Trey wouldn’t have made you feel better. Just the opposite.”
“I just want him far away from Sister and Mark. He’s hurt them enough.”
“He’s hurt you, too, Jordy. Arlene told me once how close you and Trey used to be. She said y’all were like brothers.”
I closed my eyes. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t care about any stupid friendship I had with Trey. He betrayed our whole family.” I paused. “It’s a bad joke, isn’t it? Be Trey. Betray. God, I think I’m losing it. This is killing Sister.”
“Well, he better not show up around here. I’ll chop his balls off and serve ’em up in the chili.”
I managed to laugh. “That’s one idea.” She said if Sister and Mark felt up to it that the three of us should come by the cafe and eat dinner. I told her I’d let her know.
When I hung up, I kept my hand on the receiver. Should I call my old group of friends and let them know Trey was back in town? Maybe if they kept him busy he’d stay away from Sister and Mark. Clevey, Ed, and Davis might appreciate knowing that Trey was home. Maybe they’d pay him a visit and talk him out of remaining in town. Or quite possibly they could join me in a lynching. At least they should know he was back. And certainly Junebug would be interested in knowing that Sister’s ex had returned; if Sister ever needed Junebug, it’d be now.
The phone rang under my fingers. “Jordy. This is Junebug.” His voice sounded grim.
“Hey, Junebug. I have a question for you. Is tarring and feathering officially illegal or just frowned upon?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I told him quickly about Trey’s reappearance. “God almighty,” he finally said.
“So, if I want to run him out of town on the rails, what are my legal options? Tying him into a saddle and then giving the horse a whack to make him run a fair distance couldn’t get me in trouble, could it?”
“Jordy, stop it,” Junebug said. “I’m calling with some real bad news. Real bad. You better sit down. I couldn’t call earlier ’cause his mama was in Houston today and I couldn’t call you and the others till we notified next of kin.”
“What? Who?”
“You know that emergency I got called out to this morning on Old River Road? Well, it was Clevey Shivers. Someone shot him dead,”
3
Small towns have a ritual for death. People gather, as though drawn by a lingering spirit of the departed. The relative closest to the deceased finds his or herself drafted into the dual roles of mourner and host. For some reason, large amounts of food are required, although no one seems to have much of an appetite. I’ve noticed that the men congregate on the porches no matter the weather, while the women claim the homey territories of kitchen and living room. Children are banished to the upstairs or the yard, as if grieving didn’t become them. My memories of mourning carry the smell of fresh-fried chicken, the taste of a green-bean-and-mushroom-soup casserole, the odor of old-lady lavender water and talcum powder, and the rough feel of my grandmother’s porch swing as it creaked a slow and solemn dirge.
All of this activity is much, much easier if the death is expected.
Shortly after Junebug’s phone call, I found myself driving out to Mrs. Truda Shivers’s house, down by the river on Bavary Road. I hadn’t eaten dinner; I didn’t have much appetite. I felt terrible about leaving Mark and Sister behind, but they obviously did not want to go and I sensed they wanted time to themselves.
The air felt heavy, as though rain were just a breath away. Distant thunder sounded from the east, and I could see a dark line of clouds, swollen with grayness, on the horizon. We’d have a downpour before morning, I guessed.
Several cars were already parked in Truda’s crushedgravel driveway when I arrived Junebug’s police cruiser was not among them. He was busy starting the investigation into Clevey’s death.
I stopped the engine and took a deep breath, steeling myself. Clevey, one of my oldest friends, was dead. I waited for the sting of tears, but none came-and that made me feel more miserable. I shut my eyes and a torrent of memories came forward: Clevey and I wrestling in mud and getting spanked by our mothers because we were in our Sunday best; Clevey and I, as young boys, going through confirmation classes at little St. Michael’s Episcopal Church in Bavary (the Shiveises were one of the few other Anglican families in Mirabeau); Clevey’s terrified face, staring into the storm’s darkness the night Hurricane Althea nearly killed us all; the pit my stomach fell into when, at fifteen, Clevey told me he was madly in love with Gina Fontenelle and I’d been French-kissing her the night before at a party he’d skipped.